[IDW] Walking the Wire 01/11
Jul. 16th, 2018 06:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Walking the Wire 1/11
Universe: IDW MTMTE Season Two, Hot to Trot sequel, Between the Lines series
Characters: Ratchet/Megatron, Rodimus, Ultra Magnus, Rung, Ravage, Bluestreak, Perceptor
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sex, BDSM themes, Bondage, Dom/Sub Themes, BDSM Education, Trust Issues, Angst, Vampires/Energy Eaters, mentions of torture, canon-typical violence, the LL always finds trouble
Description: What Megatron and Ratchet are to each other is a matter up for debate, one that gets a little tangled when the Lost Light stumbles into an unexpected complication.
Commission for Larry Draws
Chapter One
It wasn’t a relationship. Such a title implied affection, permanency, a future.
That was not what he and Megatron had. Ratchet didn’t know what to call it, but relationship didn’t fit the bill.
Hot mess now, that was pretty accurate.
They fought as much as they fragged. They woke up in one another’s berth more often than not. They kept it a secret, not because they were ashamed, but because the crew was a bunch of gossipy busybodies and neither of them wanted to hear the commentary.
But it wasn’t a relationship. It was just something that sort of happened and kept happening, because Ratchet suddenly had no self-control and Megatron had become someone utterly irresistible.
Ratchet tried not to think about it too hard. Because if he did, he’d go mad. This quest was already strange and unusual enough. What was one more oddity to add to the sheer what-the-fraggery Rodimus tended to attract?
For once, Ratchet decided to just go with the flow and let the dominoes lay where they toppled. Or however the phrase went.
Three months after their illicit and torrid affair thanks to both circumstance and the fact they couldn’t seem to keep their hands off each other, the Lost Light docked at an interplanetary space station called the Quartex. It welcomed all species, even Cybertronians. It was rare to find such a place, given the Cybertronian reputation, so the crew spilled into the station, eager to be free of the confines of their ship and each other.
Ratchet, ever suspicious now of places friendly to Cybertron, dared venture into the space port. The rest of the crew weren’t the only ones who needed some distance. Maybe if he wasn’t caught in the confined space of the ship, sanity would return.
Megatron hadn’t asked to come with him. Ratchet hadn’t offered. Instead, Megatron remained aboard the Lost Light with Ultra Magnus. Apparently they were going to go over some kind of report that was of great importance. Or wasn’t. Sometimes, Magnus couldn’t accurately measure priorities.
There was a pretty vast entertainment center on the Quartex. Most of the Lost Light’s crew headed there. Ratchet made it a point to go in the opposite direction, which happened to be a shopping district. There wasn’t anything he needed, but it never hurt to window shop. He didn’t even have to use his holoavatar here.
The best part about it was that most of the crew was so broke, they had no interest in shopping because they had no creds. Not that Ratchet was overflowing in funds himself, but he’d had some savings stashed in an off-planet bank, and they’d accrued a fair bit of interest during the course of the war. Miraculously, they hadn’t been stolen or seized by some foreign entity convinced the Cybertronians needed to literally pay for their crimes.
Ratchet wondered what Drift would say, if he knew Ratchet had actually left the ship instead of spending the stopover holed up in the medbay, doing inventory for the nth time. He’d probably think it was due to his influence, and that it was a sign from the stars Ratchet was finally learning to let go.
Ratchet snorted. He never thought he’d see the day he’d miss Drift and his overly optimistic, desperate attempt to change. What would Drift have said about Ratchet’s new… relationship with Megatron, for lack of a better word. He’d probably be appalled.
Drift never talked much about his past, at least not in detail. Ratchet had inferred a lot, mostly from scouts and intel during the war. He knew Deadlock used to be close to Megatron and pretty high up in the command chain before he vanished and reappeared as Drift. The circumstances surrounding Drift’s defection were also vague.
Sometimes, Ratchet wondered about his own state of mind, that he’d fallen into berth with Megatron not once, not twice, but so many times he’d lost track at this point. It was a constant thing now. Multiple times a week. Not only at night, either, given that their schedules rarely matched.
It would be easy if it was just interfacing. If it was just pleasure, and they said their goodbyes and never interacted outside the meeting of mouths and hands and spikes and valves.
Somehow, it wasn’t always about the berth. Sometimes, Ratchet found himself sharing a meal – Ratchet with his midgrade and Megatron with his allotment of fool’s energon. They sat across the table from each other, reading their own datapads, and it was a silence so companionable it scared the slag out of Ratchet.
Later, of course, it became interfacing. But it was those quiet moments that were the most frightening. It meant things Ratchet wasn’t ready to admit.
Ratchet sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. He’d ventured into Quartex in an attempt to keep his mind from Megatron. Instead, he’d found himself contemplating the state of their affairs.
He purposely paid better attention to the shops instead. He let himself be distracted by the signs shouting sales and bigger, better items. The glitz and glamor was not to his taste, but he imagined Rodimus would be quite at home here. Ratchet ignored the weapons depot, and was briefly tempted by a sweets shop displaying flavored rust sticks in the window.
Ratchet didn’t need candy to gum up his internals. He kept going.
He passed another shop, where streams of colors hung in the window, and it seized his attention at once. Ratchet paused to peer at the display, his engine revving at the lengths of rope hanging down like a curtain inside the window. They were a variety of colors, thickness, materials. Some looked as flimsy as silken thread; others as strong as chains.
One rope in particular, braided and thick, a bright and brilliant scarlet, called to Ratchet more than the others. He remembered how cutely Megatron had obeyed him. He remembered thinking how gorgeous Megatron would be wrapped in ropes, driven mad with pleasure. He’d imagined a red rope then.
Just like this one.
Ratchet hesitated. These looked as though they might be perfect. Thick, but not too thick. Strong enough to hold up to minor tugging and accidental straining, but not so much they weren’t breakable if enough force was applied. The point wouldn’t be to keep Megatron from escaping, after all, but to give him the illusion of being caught.
A wave of heat trickled through Ratchet’s lines, along with a flash of dirty images. He imagined those ropes wrapped around Megatron, thin little knots framing his valve, wrapped around his spike. Megatron would tremble for him, vent loudly, he’d growl out of embarrassment and demand Ratchet tend to him. But he’d moan when Ratchet touched him, and he’d relent.
Ratchet gnawed on his bottom lip.
The shop was built to accommodate those of equal size to the standard Cybertronian. Its door proudly claimed that it accepted all types of currency, and even offered a fair exchange rate if necessary. Almost as though it were taunting him with how easy it would be to purchase what he wanted.
Ratchet cycled a ventilation and pushed through the door, a cheerful little chime announcing his arrival. He’d already made up his mind, no reason to pretend otherwise. He wanted to see those ropes wrapped around Megatron.
He sincerely hoped Megatron would let him.
~
They didn’t make plans. They didn’t set dates. They arranged for nothing ahead of time. That would feel too much like a relationship, something important, something worthy of investment.
And yet, somehow, they still managed to meet on a regular basis. They came up with a schedule and stuck to it without communicating said schedule. It was a routine, and it was three months into it before Ratchet even realized they’d formed one.
If the pattern held true, Megatron would be arriving at Ratchet’s hab this evening. It would be after his second shift, and he’d have the next two shifts free. Ratchet would be on call, and if the crew knew what was good for them, nothing would happen to cause his emergency communicator to beep shrilly at him.
If he had to pull out of Megatron again because someone was playing tag grenade and missed, Ratchet truly would follow through with his threat to re-format the offender into a dishwasher. Preferably for use in Swerve’s bar.
Ratchet hadn’t been amused the first time. He’d been downright irritated the second time. There would not be a third.
Ratchet swept his small table clear and emptied the bag of purchases on top of it. Three coils of rope tumbled out, as did a bottle of lubricant, a pair of magna-cuffs, and a thin flog he hadn’t been able to resist. He didn’t intend to suggest they try all of this tonight as he suspected the ropes would be surprise enough. But it never hurt to add more to his collection.
Ratchet chuckled. Wouldn’t Megatron be shocked to learn Ratchet even had a collection? Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe the Decepticons were a lot kinkier than Ratchet knew.
He gathered the cuffs and the flog and tucked both into the storage crate under his berth. He left out the rope and the lube. One was fairly innocuous, the other… well. Maybe for once Megatron could be the one feeling off-balance. Somehow, Ratchet felt like he struggled for solid ground, while Megatron smirked at him, completely at ease and confident and in control.
The outer door chimed right on schedule. Not that they had one, but somehow, Megatron still showed up at the same time on the same day, and every time, Ratchet was here waiting for him. He left the rope and lubricant in plain sight on the table and answered the door, unsurprised to find Megatron on the other side of it, looking far too large, quite shiny, and more delectable than a former warlord responsible for millions of deaths had any right to be.
“You look pleased with yourself,” Megatron commented, his optics drawing into narrow slits. “Should I be worried?”
Ratchet snorted. “That’s up to you. No one said you have to come inside.” He stepped away, leaving the option available.
Behind him, the door slid shut and locked, with Megatron on the proper side of it. “I didn’t say I changed my mind.”
That would imply a decision had been made in the first place. Ratchet wasn’t sure when they decided on anything. It all seemed to be based on happenstance and purposeful deception from both of them. It remained to be seen who they were trying to fool more.
“Good. Because my face looks exactly the way it’s supposed to,” Ratchet said.
He moved past the table as though there was nothing to be noticed about it. He headed straight for his cabinet, rooting around in it for something to offer Megatron that the former warlord was allowed to consume.
Coolant perhaps. Maybe a couple of those rust sticks he’d been unable to resist as he passed the sweets shop on his way back to the Lost Light.
His sensors tracked Megatron’s footsteps. One, two, three into the room. Then pause. Hesitate. Linger.
Ratchet glanced over his shoulder. Megatron stood by the table, staring at the items on top of it. His expression was unreadable. Ratchet couldn’t tell if it was apprehension in the set of his armor, or intrigue.
“See something you like?” Ratchet asked, feigning innocence.
Coolant it was. He pulled it free of the cabinet and returned to the table, setting it down beside the bottle of lubricant.
“Is this a test?” Megatron asked, and that it didn’t come out as a growl or a demand was surprising. Especially when Megatron’s optics cycled a bit wider, his fans audibly spinning faster.
“No. An invitation.” Ratchet rested his hand on the rope and hooked a finger in one of the loops. He lifted so that it dangled between them. “Do you trust me?”
Megatron met his optics. “Trust,” he echoed. “I’m not sure what the correct answer to that question is.”
“That’s because there isn’t one. You either trust me or you don’t.” Ratchet set the rope to swaying, pleased when Megatron’s optics tracked the motion. And when his ventilations audibly hitched. “For example, I’d like to tie you up and see how many overloads I can get out of you in a single night. What do you think about that?”
Megatron visibly worked his intake. “I think that it is an interesting idea.” He caught the rope on an upswing and tugged it from Ratchet’s fingers. He turned it over in his hands, examining the material. “I could break this with minimal effort.”
“That’s the point.” Ratchet braced his hands on the table and leaned forward, looking up at Megatron. “For something like this, it’s better to start small. Especially considering who we are. So. Do you trust me?”
An answer was not immediately forthcoming. Megatron’s lips pressed together as he fingered the rope, pinching it, stretching it, testing it. His vents increased, betraying his emotions, though if they were anxiety or excitement, Ratchet couldn’t tell. Megatron was a master at keeping his field in check.
“Yes,” Megatron said at length, and he held the rope out to Ratchet. “I trust you.”
Ratchet was floored. He didn’t expect the frank statement. He expected Megatron to tease, to play more word games. He was not expecting to take the rope without thinking twice, as Megatron coughed a vent and looked away, his face taking on heat.
“When do you want to start?” Megatron asked.
Ratchet flicked his glossa over his lips. “Now,” he said as he struggled to control his vents. He didn’t know it would be this easy, and his processor kept conjuring up images that revved his engine. “But before I even start, what do you want to use as a safe word?”
Megatron blinked. His orbital ridges drew down. “Safe word?”
The outright cluelessness in his tone succeeded in surprising Ratchet for the second time that evening. Megatron had been so bold in their previous encounters, so knowledged. He’d not hesitated to offer his aft, to participate in other lewd acts the likes of which gave Ratchet plenty of self-servicing material for the weeks that followed. He was a walking interface dream.
But he looked at the rope like it was a toxic-viper that might bite him. He repeated ‘safe word’ like it was an unfamiliar pair of glyphs, tasting them for later memorization.
“While I don’t anticipate this turning into some hard play, it’s still important to set boundaries,” Ratchet started to explain while he watched Megatron carefully, tracking every reaction. “Like, for example, what your hard stops are and what word you’d like to use to make me stop, when stop either isn’t an option or you want to make a point.”
Megatron frowned. “We shouldn’t overcomplicate it. I don’t need such a thing.”
Ratchet narrowed his optics, his hands tightening around the rope. “Yes, you do. Anyone who engages in this sort of play does. I won’t continue without it.”
Megatron folded his arms over his chassis, which had the effect of making him seem larger and more intimidating. To lesser bots anyway. Ratchet hadn’t been intimidated by Megatron in a long, long time, and he wasn’t about to start now.
It was exceedingly difficult to be intimidated by a mech whose face you’d rode on more than one occasion.
“I can take anything you think you can do to me,” Megatron declared, and there was something in the tightness of his tone that bordered on… defensive? Bluster?
Ratchet caught himself from snapping out a sarcastic retort, because he was more than a little appalled. There were a lot of implications in that statement, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to dig into it. What that said about Megatron’s past sexual history, or maybe the culture of interfacing among the Decepticons, Ratchet didn’t want to speculate.
“It’s not about ‘taking it’,” Ratchet said, slow and careful, trying not to sound condescending and wondering if he succeeded or not, given the way Megatron stared at him. “This isn’t me testing you to see how much you can endure just for the Pit of it, Megatron. It’s not torture.”
Megatron rolled his optics. “I didn’t say it was.” He huffed a ventilation. “I just don’t think there’s any need for something as pointless as a safe word.”
“Pointless,” Ratchet echoed. He worked his jaw, cycling several ventilations so he could swallow both irritation and anger, neither of which were helpful in this situation. “There is nothing pointless about establishing trust between two mechs engaged in a type of play that is built upon a foundation of trust. It is not weakness to ensure that we both enjoy ourselves and respect one another’s boundaries. I don’t know what--”
“--Alright fine.” Megatron lifted his hands, cutting Ratchet off mid-sentence. “I get your point. Spare me the tirade.” He muttered something subvocally that probably anyone else but a medic wouldn’t have caught.
He was not like Optimus’ pontificating thank you very much.
Ratchet huffed. “I’m not going to do this if you’re not interested in being responsible. Don’t just say you understand, and then ignore the safe word if you need it.”
“I highly doubt a little rope and some pleasure is going to alarm me enough to call an end, but I will agree to your safety measures.” Megatron gave Ratchet a long, flat look. “Will that satisfy you enough that we can continue?”
His patronizing tone was almost enough to make Ratchet toss the rope back onto the table and show Megatron to the door.
Almost.
“Turpentine,” Ratchet said.
Megatron blinked, and for a moment, looked so flummoxed Ratchet almost laughed aloud. But it wiped away the condescension in his optics, and that was the point. “What?”
“Your safe word.” Ratchet started uncoiling the rope and measured the length of it with his optics. Or at least pretended to. He’d already decided what he was going to do with it when he bought it. “Unless you’d prefer something else.”
“No. Turpentine will do.” Megatron’s mouth twisted, and Ratchet wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a grimace or a smile. “How do you want me?”
Ratchet tilted his head toward the berth, a scenario unfurling in his mind, letting heat bloom through his circuits and burn out the lingering irritation. Fortunately, this was the part they were good at, when anger turned to fragging, and hissed arguments turned to moans and demands for more.
Pleasure was the easiest part. It was supposed to be the only part.
“On the berth.” Ratchet licked his lips, running his fingers along the length of the cord. “On your back, if you please.”
Megatron’s lip curled, and there was that disdain again, as if he’d figured Ratchet out from the request, and he was decidedly unimpressed. Also, bored.
“Should I spread my legs?” Megatron sat on the berth edge before hefting himself onto it, scooting across the surface. “Do you want me open and ready? Maybe I should call you ‘master’ while I’m at it.”
Ratchet moved toward the head of the berth, optics flicking over the available surfaces. Those lights should do. Hopefully, the cords would snap before the braces did.
He didn’t want to hear Magnus’ lecture when he got a copy of the maintenance request.
“You can call me master if it makes you feel more in control or better about it,” Ratchet replied in a bland tone, refusing to rise to Megatron’s bait. He recognized a defense mechanism when he saw one. “Let me see your wrists. You’re okay with me binding them, right?”
Megatron twisted his jaw. His optics flickered. His heels scrubbed the surface of the berth before he offered his hands to Ratchet, like a criminal to his arresting officer.
“I’m not a coward,” he said.
Ratchet swallowed a sigh. He wrapped the cord gently around Megatron’s wrists as he reconsidered this. There were a lot of misconceptions here. He could spend hours trying to explain the differences to Megatron, fielding patronizing rebuttals and optic rolls the entire time.
Or he could put words to action and show Megatron what this was about. After all, they were practically vanilla here. A little wrist bondage? Come on. Ratchet might as well have served Megatron balloons, candies, and candles on a silver platter.
“Never said you were.” Ratchet tugged Megatron’s arms over his head and looped the cord around the light braces. He aimed for brutal honesty, hoping it would get through that wall of defensive aggression. “Been with my share of soldiers though. Everyone’s got a trigger. No shame in that.”
The curl to Megatron’s lip flattened. He gave a testing tug to the restraints, and the light brace creaked, but held. If he didn’t struggle, it would stay intact.
“This is hardly distressful,” he said.
Ratchet ground his denta. “Then maybe not everyone is a big, brave emperor of destruction with a penchant for slaughtering entire planets.” He dragged his hands down the length of Megatron’s arms, slow and steady, better a caress. “To put it in perspective.”
“I think you’re confusing me for Starscream.” Megatron snorted and his gaze cut away. Out of shame? Too early to tell. “He’s the self-proclaimed emperor.”
“Skipped right over the slaughtering planets part I see,” Ratchet said dryly.
His hands drifted down to Megatron’s shoulders, fingers slipping into the joints, tasting the cables beneath. “Dare I ask if you’re comfortable or will you just accuse me of coddling you again?”
Megatron snorted.
Fine then. If he wanted to be uncomfortable, Ratchet would let him. He’d understand soon enough.
Ratchet didn’t much like the way Megatron held himself. Too taut, too contained, his field unreadable, and his armor slicked tight to his frame. But he had yet to say ‘no’ or ‘stop’ or ‘turpentine’. He hadn’t tried to escape; he hadn’t offered a protest of any kind.
Slagging Decepticon bravado.
Ratchet climbed onto the berth and straddled Megatron’s upper thighs. Heat puffed up in thin trails from the narrow gaps in Megatron’s armor. He was shaking, however minutely, and Ratchet hoped it was from arousal rather than trepidation.
“Do you remember your safe word?” Ratchet planted his palm on Megatron’s array and circled the closed panel with his fingertips.
Megatron’s ventilations hitched. His fingers twitched. One crimson optic rolled toward Ratchet. “Turpentine,” he ground out. “Or stop, whichever I think of first.”
“Good.” Ratchet increased the pressure of his finger, tightening the circles, feeling the heat building beneath his dermal net. “And you’re going to use them.” He added a bit more pressure, heard the stifled sound in Megatron’s intake.
It was a good sound. It made something tighten in Ratchet’s internals, a wash of heat to chase away the irritation Megatron had fanned inside of him.
Megatron’s glossa swept over his lips. A shudder ran across his armor. His hips moved, in just the slightest of upward rocks.
“Won’t need to,” he said, and before Ratchet could say anything, he added, “but if I do, I know them.”
Progress!
Ratchet fought down his grin. “Open for me,” he murmured as he stroked Megatron’s panel, sensors detecting the shift-click of movement behind it. “I think you deserve a reward for that.”
Megatron wet his lips again. His attention turned to Ratchet full throttle, heat and fire in his optics. He obeyed without a word, panel spiraling open, the head of his spike peeping into view.
Both panels, actually, Ratchet noticed approvingly. The scent of lubricant wafted upward. It glistened in the depths of Megatron’s valve, mostly hidden in the vee of his thighs.
Ratchet rolled the pad of his thumb over the head of Megatron’s spike, meaning to coax it free. He intended to make use of it tonight. Intended to ride Megatron to exhaustion, prove to him submission wasn’t whatever rumor he’d picked up on the darknet. It was so, so much more.
Megatron sucked in a vent. The cables made an audible creak, like that of new thread getting its first stretch.
“Don’t snap my ropes,” Ratchet warned as he rubbed the head of Megatron’s spike, persuading the thick length to pressurize.
“I won’t,” Megatron gritted out. He shifted, hips pushing minutely into Ratchet’s hold, his field giving the first flicker of yielding.
Ratchet could taste it now, like warm charge and desire. It made his own vents quicken, lust rising within his circuits like a rinse in a hot solvent rack. He shifted on Megatron’s thighs, valve cycling hot and ready.
“You might,” Ratchet purred as Megatron fully pressurized into his hand. Ratchet gave him a long, squeezing stroke. A savoring one.
Megatron was more than a handful. He was thick in Ratchet’s grip, the perfect width to stroke all of his internal sensors with every push, and a head flared enough to grind over his ceiling node on those deepest thrusts. Perched on top, Ratchet had control of everything.
It was delicious.
“Let me tell you how this is going to go,” Ratchet continued, trying to keep his tone conversational, his optics catching and holding Megatron’s.
“I’m going to frag you. I’m going to take your spike, again and again, and you’re going to overload as often as you can. And then more.”
Ratchet pumped Megatron’s spike leisurely, his fingers painting swathes of pleasure over the sensory lines. Pre-fluid dribbled freely, moistening him with glistening trickles.
He leaned forward, free hand braced against the wall above Megatron’s head, his thighs framing Megatron’s spike. His ex-vents were a hot, wet puff over Megatron’s lips, and Ratchet thrilled inwardly at the way Megatron watched him. The way Megatron’s optics stayed locked on his.
Primus below he was a natural.
“You’re going to overload until you can’t anymore. Until you’ve drained your tanks dry.” Ratchet rubbed his cheek over Megatron’s, felt the quiver in Megatron’s frame, the flexing of Megatron’s field. “I’m going to wreck you, Megatron. And you’re going to like it.”
He licked the curve of Megatron’s jaw, denta scraping lightly in his wake. He heard Megatron shiver, heard a thin whine in Megatron’s vents, and more pre-fluid spilled from Megatron’s spike over his fingers. The quick throb-throb of it was even more telling.
“Stop me if I’m wrong,” Ratchet murmured, and gave Megatron’s spike a sharp squeeze.
Megatron jerked beneath him, hips pumping up in an aborted thrust, his heels scrabbling over the berth. The light braces gave a warning creak.
“If you are taunting me, medic, I will be sorely displeased,” Megatron gritted out, but the yearning in his field said it all.
Ratchet dragged his fingers down to the base of Megatron’s spike, index pressing on a lower node that made Megatron’s vents catch and his spinal strut arch. The sound he made was pure sin, a strangled groan, a flashfire in his field. He surged beneath Ratchet, demanding more.
Lust stole Ratchet’s next vent-cycle. It left him drowning in a dizzying wave of hunger. He swallowed a groan, his lips hovering over Megatron’s, inches away.
“Oh, I haven’t even begun,” he growled, and crashed his mouth over Megatron’s, glossa plunging inside for a heated kiss, a furnace of need clawing through his circuits and throbbing down into his valve.
The way Megatron relented beneath him, the quickly stifled near-whimper, the yielding of his frame and the throbbing of his spike – it all spoke to something Megatron craved, but hadn’t found a reference for. In a split-second, Ratchet had so many ideas he almost overloaded from the sheer potential of it, his valve snapping into view and lubricant dribbling down to paint Megatron’s upper thighs in lurid streaks of it.
Ratchet reined himself in on principle alone.
Megatron had allowed him all night.
There was a lot more yet to come.
***
Universe: IDW MTMTE Season Two, Hot to Trot sequel, Between the Lines series
Characters: Ratchet/Megatron, Rodimus, Ultra Magnus, Rung, Ravage, Bluestreak, Perceptor
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sex, BDSM themes, Bondage, Dom/Sub Themes, BDSM Education, Trust Issues, Angst, Vampires/Energy Eaters, mentions of torture, canon-typical violence, the LL always finds trouble
Description: What Megatron and Ratchet are to each other is a matter up for debate, one that gets a little tangled when the Lost Light stumbles into an unexpected complication.
Commission for Larry Draws
It wasn’t a relationship. Such a title implied affection, permanency, a future.
That was not what he and Megatron had. Ratchet didn’t know what to call it, but relationship didn’t fit the bill.
Hot mess now, that was pretty accurate.
They fought as much as they fragged. They woke up in one another’s berth more often than not. They kept it a secret, not because they were ashamed, but because the crew was a bunch of gossipy busybodies and neither of them wanted to hear the commentary.
But it wasn’t a relationship. It was just something that sort of happened and kept happening, because Ratchet suddenly had no self-control and Megatron had become someone utterly irresistible.
Ratchet tried not to think about it too hard. Because if he did, he’d go mad. This quest was already strange and unusual enough. What was one more oddity to add to the sheer what-the-fraggery Rodimus tended to attract?
For once, Ratchet decided to just go with the flow and let the dominoes lay where they toppled. Or however the phrase went.
Three months after their illicit and torrid affair thanks to both circumstance and the fact they couldn’t seem to keep their hands off each other, the Lost Light docked at an interplanetary space station called the Quartex. It welcomed all species, even Cybertronians. It was rare to find such a place, given the Cybertronian reputation, so the crew spilled into the station, eager to be free of the confines of their ship and each other.
Ratchet, ever suspicious now of places friendly to Cybertron, dared venture into the space port. The rest of the crew weren’t the only ones who needed some distance. Maybe if he wasn’t caught in the confined space of the ship, sanity would return.
Megatron hadn’t asked to come with him. Ratchet hadn’t offered. Instead, Megatron remained aboard the Lost Light with Ultra Magnus. Apparently they were going to go over some kind of report that was of great importance. Or wasn’t. Sometimes, Magnus couldn’t accurately measure priorities.
There was a pretty vast entertainment center on the Quartex. Most of the Lost Light’s crew headed there. Ratchet made it a point to go in the opposite direction, which happened to be a shopping district. There wasn’t anything he needed, but it never hurt to window shop. He didn’t even have to use his holoavatar here.
The best part about it was that most of the crew was so broke, they had no interest in shopping because they had no creds. Not that Ratchet was overflowing in funds himself, but he’d had some savings stashed in an off-planet bank, and they’d accrued a fair bit of interest during the course of the war. Miraculously, they hadn’t been stolen or seized by some foreign entity convinced the Cybertronians needed to literally pay for their crimes.
Ratchet wondered what Drift would say, if he knew Ratchet had actually left the ship instead of spending the stopover holed up in the medbay, doing inventory for the nth time. He’d probably think it was due to his influence, and that it was a sign from the stars Ratchet was finally learning to let go.
Ratchet snorted. He never thought he’d see the day he’d miss Drift and his overly optimistic, desperate attempt to change. What would Drift have said about Ratchet’s new… relationship with Megatron, for lack of a better word. He’d probably be appalled.
Drift never talked much about his past, at least not in detail. Ratchet had inferred a lot, mostly from scouts and intel during the war. He knew Deadlock used to be close to Megatron and pretty high up in the command chain before he vanished and reappeared as Drift. The circumstances surrounding Drift’s defection were also vague.
Sometimes, Ratchet wondered about his own state of mind, that he’d fallen into berth with Megatron not once, not twice, but so many times he’d lost track at this point. It was a constant thing now. Multiple times a week. Not only at night, either, given that their schedules rarely matched.
It would be easy if it was just interfacing. If it was just pleasure, and they said their goodbyes and never interacted outside the meeting of mouths and hands and spikes and valves.
Somehow, it wasn’t always about the berth. Sometimes, Ratchet found himself sharing a meal – Ratchet with his midgrade and Megatron with his allotment of fool’s energon. They sat across the table from each other, reading their own datapads, and it was a silence so companionable it scared the slag out of Ratchet.
Later, of course, it became interfacing. But it was those quiet moments that were the most frightening. It meant things Ratchet wasn’t ready to admit.
Ratchet sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. He’d ventured into Quartex in an attempt to keep his mind from Megatron. Instead, he’d found himself contemplating the state of their affairs.
He purposely paid better attention to the shops instead. He let himself be distracted by the signs shouting sales and bigger, better items. The glitz and glamor was not to his taste, but he imagined Rodimus would be quite at home here. Ratchet ignored the weapons depot, and was briefly tempted by a sweets shop displaying flavored rust sticks in the window.
Ratchet didn’t need candy to gum up his internals. He kept going.
He passed another shop, where streams of colors hung in the window, and it seized his attention at once. Ratchet paused to peer at the display, his engine revving at the lengths of rope hanging down like a curtain inside the window. They were a variety of colors, thickness, materials. Some looked as flimsy as silken thread; others as strong as chains.
One rope in particular, braided and thick, a bright and brilliant scarlet, called to Ratchet more than the others. He remembered how cutely Megatron had obeyed him. He remembered thinking how gorgeous Megatron would be wrapped in ropes, driven mad with pleasure. He’d imagined a red rope then.
Just like this one.
Ratchet hesitated. These looked as though they might be perfect. Thick, but not too thick. Strong enough to hold up to minor tugging and accidental straining, but not so much they weren’t breakable if enough force was applied. The point wouldn’t be to keep Megatron from escaping, after all, but to give him the illusion of being caught.
A wave of heat trickled through Ratchet’s lines, along with a flash of dirty images. He imagined those ropes wrapped around Megatron, thin little knots framing his valve, wrapped around his spike. Megatron would tremble for him, vent loudly, he’d growl out of embarrassment and demand Ratchet tend to him. But he’d moan when Ratchet touched him, and he’d relent.
Ratchet gnawed on his bottom lip.
The shop was built to accommodate those of equal size to the standard Cybertronian. Its door proudly claimed that it accepted all types of currency, and even offered a fair exchange rate if necessary. Almost as though it were taunting him with how easy it would be to purchase what he wanted.
Ratchet cycled a ventilation and pushed through the door, a cheerful little chime announcing his arrival. He’d already made up his mind, no reason to pretend otherwise. He wanted to see those ropes wrapped around Megatron.
He sincerely hoped Megatron would let him.
They didn’t make plans. They didn’t set dates. They arranged for nothing ahead of time. That would feel too much like a relationship, something important, something worthy of investment.
And yet, somehow, they still managed to meet on a regular basis. They came up with a schedule and stuck to it without communicating said schedule. It was a routine, and it was three months into it before Ratchet even realized they’d formed one.
If the pattern held true, Megatron would be arriving at Ratchet’s hab this evening. It would be after his second shift, and he’d have the next two shifts free. Ratchet would be on call, and if the crew knew what was good for them, nothing would happen to cause his emergency communicator to beep shrilly at him.
If he had to pull out of Megatron again because someone was playing tag grenade and missed, Ratchet truly would follow through with his threat to re-format the offender into a dishwasher. Preferably for use in Swerve’s bar.
Ratchet hadn’t been amused the first time. He’d been downright irritated the second time. There would not be a third.
Ratchet swept his small table clear and emptied the bag of purchases on top of it. Three coils of rope tumbled out, as did a bottle of lubricant, a pair of magna-cuffs, and a thin flog he hadn’t been able to resist. He didn’t intend to suggest they try all of this tonight as he suspected the ropes would be surprise enough. But it never hurt to add more to his collection.
Ratchet chuckled. Wouldn’t Megatron be shocked to learn Ratchet even had a collection? Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe the Decepticons were a lot kinkier than Ratchet knew.
He gathered the cuffs and the flog and tucked both into the storage crate under his berth. He left out the rope and the lube. One was fairly innocuous, the other… well. Maybe for once Megatron could be the one feeling off-balance. Somehow, Ratchet felt like he struggled for solid ground, while Megatron smirked at him, completely at ease and confident and in control.
The outer door chimed right on schedule. Not that they had one, but somehow, Megatron still showed up at the same time on the same day, and every time, Ratchet was here waiting for him. He left the rope and lubricant in plain sight on the table and answered the door, unsurprised to find Megatron on the other side of it, looking far too large, quite shiny, and more delectable than a former warlord responsible for millions of deaths had any right to be.
“You look pleased with yourself,” Megatron commented, his optics drawing into narrow slits. “Should I be worried?”
Ratchet snorted. “That’s up to you. No one said you have to come inside.” He stepped away, leaving the option available.
Behind him, the door slid shut and locked, with Megatron on the proper side of it. “I didn’t say I changed my mind.”
That would imply a decision had been made in the first place. Ratchet wasn’t sure when they decided on anything. It all seemed to be based on happenstance and purposeful deception from both of them. It remained to be seen who they were trying to fool more.
“Good. Because my face looks exactly the way it’s supposed to,” Ratchet said.
He moved past the table as though there was nothing to be noticed about it. He headed straight for his cabinet, rooting around in it for something to offer Megatron that the former warlord was allowed to consume.
Coolant perhaps. Maybe a couple of those rust sticks he’d been unable to resist as he passed the sweets shop on his way back to the Lost Light.
His sensors tracked Megatron’s footsteps. One, two, three into the room. Then pause. Hesitate. Linger.
Ratchet glanced over his shoulder. Megatron stood by the table, staring at the items on top of it. His expression was unreadable. Ratchet couldn’t tell if it was apprehension in the set of his armor, or intrigue.
“See something you like?” Ratchet asked, feigning innocence.
Coolant it was. He pulled it free of the cabinet and returned to the table, setting it down beside the bottle of lubricant.
“Is this a test?” Megatron asked, and that it didn’t come out as a growl or a demand was surprising. Especially when Megatron’s optics cycled a bit wider, his fans audibly spinning faster.
“No. An invitation.” Ratchet rested his hand on the rope and hooked a finger in one of the loops. He lifted so that it dangled between them. “Do you trust me?”
Megatron met his optics. “Trust,” he echoed. “I’m not sure what the correct answer to that question is.”
“That’s because there isn’t one. You either trust me or you don’t.” Ratchet set the rope to swaying, pleased when Megatron’s optics tracked the motion. And when his ventilations audibly hitched. “For example, I’d like to tie you up and see how many overloads I can get out of you in a single night. What do you think about that?”
Megatron visibly worked his intake. “I think that it is an interesting idea.” He caught the rope on an upswing and tugged it from Ratchet’s fingers. He turned it over in his hands, examining the material. “I could break this with minimal effort.”
“That’s the point.” Ratchet braced his hands on the table and leaned forward, looking up at Megatron. “For something like this, it’s better to start small. Especially considering who we are. So. Do you trust me?”
An answer was not immediately forthcoming. Megatron’s lips pressed together as he fingered the rope, pinching it, stretching it, testing it. His vents increased, betraying his emotions, though if they were anxiety or excitement, Ratchet couldn’t tell. Megatron was a master at keeping his field in check.
“Yes,” Megatron said at length, and he held the rope out to Ratchet. “I trust you.”
Ratchet was floored. He didn’t expect the frank statement. He expected Megatron to tease, to play more word games. He was not expecting to take the rope without thinking twice, as Megatron coughed a vent and looked away, his face taking on heat.
“When do you want to start?” Megatron asked.
Ratchet flicked his glossa over his lips. “Now,” he said as he struggled to control his vents. He didn’t know it would be this easy, and his processor kept conjuring up images that revved his engine. “But before I even start, what do you want to use as a safe word?”
Megatron blinked. His orbital ridges drew down. “Safe word?”
The outright cluelessness in his tone succeeded in surprising Ratchet for the second time that evening. Megatron had been so bold in their previous encounters, so knowledged. He’d not hesitated to offer his aft, to participate in other lewd acts the likes of which gave Ratchet plenty of self-servicing material for the weeks that followed. He was a walking interface dream.
But he looked at the rope like it was a toxic-viper that might bite him. He repeated ‘safe word’ like it was an unfamiliar pair of glyphs, tasting them for later memorization.
“While I don’t anticipate this turning into some hard play, it’s still important to set boundaries,” Ratchet started to explain while he watched Megatron carefully, tracking every reaction. “Like, for example, what your hard stops are and what word you’d like to use to make me stop, when stop either isn’t an option or you want to make a point.”
Megatron frowned. “We shouldn’t overcomplicate it. I don’t need such a thing.”
Ratchet narrowed his optics, his hands tightening around the rope. “Yes, you do. Anyone who engages in this sort of play does. I won’t continue without it.”
Megatron folded his arms over his chassis, which had the effect of making him seem larger and more intimidating. To lesser bots anyway. Ratchet hadn’t been intimidated by Megatron in a long, long time, and he wasn’t about to start now.
It was exceedingly difficult to be intimidated by a mech whose face you’d rode on more than one occasion.
“I can take anything you think you can do to me,” Megatron declared, and there was something in the tightness of his tone that bordered on… defensive? Bluster?
Ratchet caught himself from snapping out a sarcastic retort, because he was more than a little appalled. There were a lot of implications in that statement, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to dig into it. What that said about Megatron’s past sexual history, or maybe the culture of interfacing among the Decepticons, Ratchet didn’t want to speculate.
“It’s not about ‘taking it’,” Ratchet said, slow and careful, trying not to sound condescending and wondering if he succeeded or not, given the way Megatron stared at him. “This isn’t me testing you to see how much you can endure just for the Pit of it, Megatron. It’s not torture.”
Megatron rolled his optics. “I didn’t say it was.” He huffed a ventilation. “I just don’t think there’s any need for something as pointless as a safe word.”
“Pointless,” Ratchet echoed. He worked his jaw, cycling several ventilations so he could swallow both irritation and anger, neither of which were helpful in this situation. “There is nothing pointless about establishing trust between two mechs engaged in a type of play that is built upon a foundation of trust. It is not weakness to ensure that we both enjoy ourselves and respect one another’s boundaries. I don’t know what--”
“--Alright fine.” Megatron lifted his hands, cutting Ratchet off mid-sentence. “I get your point. Spare me the tirade.” He muttered something subvocally that probably anyone else but a medic wouldn’t have caught.
He was not like Optimus’ pontificating thank you very much.
Ratchet huffed. “I’m not going to do this if you’re not interested in being responsible. Don’t just say you understand, and then ignore the safe word if you need it.”
“I highly doubt a little rope and some pleasure is going to alarm me enough to call an end, but I will agree to your safety measures.” Megatron gave Ratchet a long, flat look. “Will that satisfy you enough that we can continue?”
His patronizing tone was almost enough to make Ratchet toss the rope back onto the table and show Megatron to the door.
Almost.
“Turpentine,” Ratchet said.
Megatron blinked, and for a moment, looked so flummoxed Ratchet almost laughed aloud. But it wiped away the condescension in his optics, and that was the point. “What?”
“Your safe word.” Ratchet started uncoiling the rope and measured the length of it with his optics. Or at least pretended to. He’d already decided what he was going to do with it when he bought it. “Unless you’d prefer something else.”
“No. Turpentine will do.” Megatron’s mouth twisted, and Ratchet wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a grimace or a smile. “How do you want me?”
Ratchet tilted his head toward the berth, a scenario unfurling in his mind, letting heat bloom through his circuits and burn out the lingering irritation. Fortunately, this was the part they were good at, when anger turned to fragging, and hissed arguments turned to moans and demands for more.
Pleasure was the easiest part. It was supposed to be the only part.
“On the berth.” Ratchet licked his lips, running his fingers along the length of the cord. “On your back, if you please.”
Megatron’s lip curled, and there was that disdain again, as if he’d figured Ratchet out from the request, and he was decidedly unimpressed. Also, bored.
“Should I spread my legs?” Megatron sat on the berth edge before hefting himself onto it, scooting across the surface. “Do you want me open and ready? Maybe I should call you ‘master’ while I’m at it.”
Ratchet moved toward the head of the berth, optics flicking over the available surfaces. Those lights should do. Hopefully, the cords would snap before the braces did.
He didn’t want to hear Magnus’ lecture when he got a copy of the maintenance request.
“You can call me master if it makes you feel more in control or better about it,” Ratchet replied in a bland tone, refusing to rise to Megatron’s bait. He recognized a defense mechanism when he saw one. “Let me see your wrists. You’re okay with me binding them, right?”
Megatron twisted his jaw. His optics flickered. His heels scrubbed the surface of the berth before he offered his hands to Ratchet, like a criminal to his arresting officer.
“I’m not a coward,” he said.
Ratchet swallowed a sigh. He wrapped the cord gently around Megatron’s wrists as he reconsidered this. There were a lot of misconceptions here. He could spend hours trying to explain the differences to Megatron, fielding patronizing rebuttals and optic rolls the entire time.
Or he could put words to action and show Megatron what this was about. After all, they were practically vanilla here. A little wrist bondage? Come on. Ratchet might as well have served Megatron balloons, candies, and candles on a silver platter.
“Never said you were.” Ratchet tugged Megatron’s arms over his head and looped the cord around the light braces. He aimed for brutal honesty, hoping it would get through that wall of defensive aggression. “Been with my share of soldiers though. Everyone’s got a trigger. No shame in that.”
The curl to Megatron’s lip flattened. He gave a testing tug to the restraints, and the light brace creaked, but held. If he didn’t struggle, it would stay intact.
“This is hardly distressful,” he said.
Ratchet ground his denta. “Then maybe not everyone is a big, brave emperor of destruction with a penchant for slaughtering entire planets.” He dragged his hands down the length of Megatron’s arms, slow and steady, better a caress. “To put it in perspective.”
“I think you’re confusing me for Starscream.” Megatron snorted and his gaze cut away. Out of shame? Too early to tell. “He’s the self-proclaimed emperor.”
“Skipped right over the slaughtering planets part I see,” Ratchet said dryly.
His hands drifted down to Megatron’s shoulders, fingers slipping into the joints, tasting the cables beneath. “Dare I ask if you’re comfortable or will you just accuse me of coddling you again?”
Megatron snorted.
Fine then. If he wanted to be uncomfortable, Ratchet would let him. He’d understand soon enough.
Ratchet didn’t much like the way Megatron held himself. Too taut, too contained, his field unreadable, and his armor slicked tight to his frame. But he had yet to say ‘no’ or ‘stop’ or ‘turpentine’. He hadn’t tried to escape; he hadn’t offered a protest of any kind.
Slagging Decepticon bravado.
Ratchet climbed onto the berth and straddled Megatron’s upper thighs. Heat puffed up in thin trails from the narrow gaps in Megatron’s armor. He was shaking, however minutely, and Ratchet hoped it was from arousal rather than trepidation.
“Do you remember your safe word?” Ratchet planted his palm on Megatron’s array and circled the closed panel with his fingertips.
Megatron’s ventilations hitched. His fingers twitched. One crimson optic rolled toward Ratchet. “Turpentine,” he ground out. “Or stop, whichever I think of first.”
“Good.” Ratchet increased the pressure of his finger, tightening the circles, feeling the heat building beneath his dermal net. “And you’re going to use them.” He added a bit more pressure, heard the stifled sound in Megatron’s intake.
It was a good sound. It made something tighten in Ratchet’s internals, a wash of heat to chase away the irritation Megatron had fanned inside of him.
Megatron’s glossa swept over his lips. A shudder ran across his armor. His hips moved, in just the slightest of upward rocks.
“Won’t need to,” he said, and before Ratchet could say anything, he added, “but if I do, I know them.”
Progress!
Ratchet fought down his grin. “Open for me,” he murmured as he stroked Megatron’s panel, sensors detecting the shift-click of movement behind it. “I think you deserve a reward for that.”
Megatron wet his lips again. His attention turned to Ratchet full throttle, heat and fire in his optics. He obeyed without a word, panel spiraling open, the head of his spike peeping into view.
Both panels, actually, Ratchet noticed approvingly. The scent of lubricant wafted upward. It glistened in the depths of Megatron’s valve, mostly hidden in the vee of his thighs.
Ratchet rolled the pad of his thumb over the head of Megatron’s spike, meaning to coax it free. He intended to make use of it tonight. Intended to ride Megatron to exhaustion, prove to him submission wasn’t whatever rumor he’d picked up on the darknet. It was so, so much more.
Megatron sucked in a vent. The cables made an audible creak, like that of new thread getting its first stretch.
“Don’t snap my ropes,” Ratchet warned as he rubbed the head of Megatron’s spike, persuading the thick length to pressurize.
“I won’t,” Megatron gritted out. He shifted, hips pushing minutely into Ratchet’s hold, his field giving the first flicker of yielding.
Ratchet could taste it now, like warm charge and desire. It made his own vents quicken, lust rising within his circuits like a rinse in a hot solvent rack. He shifted on Megatron’s thighs, valve cycling hot and ready.
“You might,” Ratchet purred as Megatron fully pressurized into his hand. Ratchet gave him a long, squeezing stroke. A savoring one.
Megatron was more than a handful. He was thick in Ratchet’s grip, the perfect width to stroke all of his internal sensors with every push, and a head flared enough to grind over his ceiling node on those deepest thrusts. Perched on top, Ratchet had control of everything.
It was delicious.
“Let me tell you how this is going to go,” Ratchet continued, trying to keep his tone conversational, his optics catching and holding Megatron’s.
“I’m going to frag you. I’m going to take your spike, again and again, and you’re going to overload as often as you can. And then more.”
Ratchet pumped Megatron’s spike leisurely, his fingers painting swathes of pleasure over the sensory lines. Pre-fluid dribbled freely, moistening him with glistening trickles.
He leaned forward, free hand braced against the wall above Megatron’s head, his thighs framing Megatron’s spike. His ex-vents were a hot, wet puff over Megatron’s lips, and Ratchet thrilled inwardly at the way Megatron watched him. The way Megatron’s optics stayed locked on his.
Primus below he was a natural.
“You’re going to overload until you can’t anymore. Until you’ve drained your tanks dry.” Ratchet rubbed his cheek over Megatron’s, felt the quiver in Megatron’s frame, the flexing of Megatron’s field. “I’m going to wreck you, Megatron. And you’re going to like it.”
He licked the curve of Megatron’s jaw, denta scraping lightly in his wake. He heard Megatron shiver, heard a thin whine in Megatron’s vents, and more pre-fluid spilled from Megatron’s spike over his fingers. The quick throb-throb of it was even more telling.
“Stop me if I’m wrong,” Ratchet murmured, and gave Megatron’s spike a sharp squeeze.
Megatron jerked beneath him, hips pumping up in an aborted thrust, his heels scrabbling over the berth. The light braces gave a warning creak.
“If you are taunting me, medic, I will be sorely displeased,” Megatron gritted out, but the yearning in his field said it all.
Ratchet dragged his fingers down to the base of Megatron’s spike, index pressing on a lower node that made Megatron’s vents catch and his spinal strut arch. The sound he made was pure sin, a strangled groan, a flashfire in his field. He surged beneath Ratchet, demanding more.
Lust stole Ratchet’s next vent-cycle. It left him drowning in a dizzying wave of hunger. He swallowed a groan, his lips hovering over Megatron’s, inches away.
“Oh, I haven’t even begun,” he growled, and crashed his mouth over Megatron’s, glossa plunging inside for a heated kiss, a furnace of need clawing through his circuits and throbbing down into his valve.
The way Megatron relented beneath him, the quickly stifled near-whimper, the yielding of his frame and the throbbing of his spike – it all spoke to something Megatron craved, but hadn’t found a reference for. In a split-second, Ratchet had so many ideas he almost overloaded from the sheer potential of it, his valve snapping into view and lubricant dribbling down to paint Megatron’s upper thighs in lurid streaks of it.
Ratchet reined himself in on principle alone.
Megatron had allowed him all night.
There was a lot more yet to come.
